


Smother

by ikolism



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, and possibly onwards, spoilers for death bringer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikolism/pseuds/ikolism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There were a hundred things she needed to say to him, needed to tell him, needed him to know. There were a thousand words she needed to speak, needed to whisper, needed him to hear.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smother

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i did this
> 
> i haven't read it over since writing it. and it was written in like 30 mins, at like 3am. so if you find any mistakes, that's my excuse. (and i DID catch some earlier, which are now fixed so hopefully...there won't be any more??) 
> 
> comments appreciated. humour me. this is my first proper fic.

           It is quiet, and her head hurts. Her mouth dry, her skin peppered with bruises – all she really wants is to sleep. But she’s dirty and bloodied and she smells of sweat. Her hair is tousled and tangled and her lip is swollen, engorged by sheer blunt force trauma. They don’t talk much on the drive home. There’s not much to say. But she has a list. A list of words and syllables and bare-faced confessions. An orderly queue of things thought but never said – entitled “Maybe One Day,” bolded, underlined, italicised. But she finds that not one of these is crossed off. As she steps into the shower, eyes downcast and tracking the swift journey of blood to the drain, she finds that her list is built of regrets; missed opportunities - words considered, lingered on, but never shared. Some of these phrases are simple – nothing important. The most nondescript find themselves somewhere within the range of “thank you” and “I’m sorry.” As she threads her fingers through her hair, teasing out the tangles and the blood, she reflects. Reflects on all the things that could fall under that subheading of casual but meaningful acknowledgement. She could say thank you for her training, for all those times he’s saved her – she could say thank you for the compliments, the silent comfort of his presence. She could say thank you for the simplicity of the fact that he tolerated her, that after all these years she has never been a burden. She could say she is sorry. She is sorry for all those fights they could've avoided, for all those times he trusted her and believed in her and she messed up. She is sorry that he is hurting, and sorry for often being the cause.

           But on her list of phrases, she has more than that. At first, she avoids considering these as she towels herself dry, focusing instead on the stretch of her aching muscles, the sting of wounds reopened. She could use magic for the task and give herself relief, but in the quiet exhaustion of the night, she feels it would be somehow wrong. A brief respite from the pain only emphasises the inevitable return, and after all she's been through, bone-deep aches are the least of her worries. She dries herself quickly - quick, rough swipes of material against damp skin – and reaches for her clothes. As she slides on her underwear, her t-shirt, brushes her hair through and ties it up, she thinks. She wonders. She wonders how different her life might’ve been if not for that rainy night so many years ago. It is a disquieting, uncomfortable thought. And yet, at the same time, she finds herself longing. She would never have had to consider the possibility that she may be the death of so many. She would never have to live with that inevitable guilt. But so too would she have to live without a man that, in its simplest form, defined her. With nothing more complicated than his existence by her side, he gave her purpose. But even as she recognises his importance, so too does she understand that she has never wished to balance her sense of self so precariously - dependent on someone who she could never guarantee to always be there to support it. Very early on in her life, she had decided that that was not the sort of person she was going to be. And she's not. She doesn't believe she is. She can't. If she allowed herself thoughts like that, she would give in. She would admit to herself how badly she needed him. She doesn't like that sort of dependency. But she feels it. 

           She finds herself wandering towards her bedroom – her bare-footed pace so soft as to be silent. She wonders where he is, shakes her head lightly at the thought. She thinks, perhaps, it would not be so good a time to see him. Not at this moment, not so lost in her own mind. She might say things without consideration. She does not know what she fears most – that she would regret them, or that she simply would not. Her bed is soft, yielding. The sheets engulf her, almost suffocating. But she finds comfort in the familiarity, and settles. It is not as uncomfortably pleasing as her bed at home, with its broken springs putting her at risk of laceration every night, or the rigid mattress that promised inevitable back pain, but this bed – overwhelmingly perfect in its comfort, smelling faintly of lavender (by his insistence) – was just as much a home as any from her youth. He bought it for her. He bought a lot of things for her. Each a lavish, indulgent spending, of money that found itself in abundance.

           She reaches across, turns off the light, and plunges herself into darkness. Many years ago, she was afraid of the dark. She was afraid of a great many things, but the dark especially so. She was afraid of the monsters that lingered in it, quietly observing. She laughs now, a weak, breathy exclamation of amusement – laced, quite unsurprisingly, with bitterness. It was funny to her. It was funny that she had spent so long afraid of the monsters in the dark, completely unaware that the only monsters she ought to really fear lingered within her own self. The universe, she supposes, likes to mock her.

           She buries herself in the duvet, tugging it over her head, listening to her own short gasps of breath. She struggles not to cry. And thinks, instead, of happier things. At least until she falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

           She wakes again, during the night. A thin sheen of sweat coats her flesh, and she feels like she’s choking. Drowning. Suffocating on her own existence. She thinks she might’ve whimpered, but she isn’t quite sure. She reaches out, blindly, throws the covers off her body, gasps at the sudden, razor-sharp swipe of cold air across her skin. She lies there, panting, gasping for breath, and she isn’t sure how long it takes for her to notice him. He is watching, standing in the doorframe. But he is not quite settled, and she knows he has not been there long. His head is tilted to the side, ever so slightly, and he says nothing. He does not need to.

           She looks at him for a long time, and he looks back. And she wonders how often he has felt like this. Hopeless and angry, and completely resigned to an existence perpetually plagued by nightmares – of deeds done, or the potential thereof. She casts her gaze away, pushes herself up, and sits. He makes no noise as he moves across the room, settles on the edge of the bed.

           They sit in silence for a long while. The only sound in the room, her gentle breaths – slower, calmer now. After what seems an eternity, she turns to him. His embrace offers comfort, promises more. He is unyielding – all sharp angles, gaping holes. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, the top of his shirt partially unbuttoned. It is not out of comfort, she knows. Some habits are simply impossible to break. He is cold, hard, and empty. And she finds she doesn't mind. More than that, she finds it so wholly _him_. It is him, and he’s here – with her, holding her, carefully, gently. As if afraid to break her. As if handling something fragile. She clutches him tighter, tinged – though she would never admit it – with the slightest desperation, a wordless “please,” and he responds in turn. And suddenly she does not feel so breakable anymore. She does not feel weak. But she is weary, and he knows this as much as her. So when he gently lays her down, she does not utter a word in protest. And when he tugs the sheets back over her, she stays quiet still.

           But in the soft, hazy moments before sleep takes its hold, her fingers find his – gloved, but she expects no less – and she speaks. And it is but three words, and his grip tightens, and he has no breath to be taken, but she knows for sure in this moment it would have left him. She isn’t sure if the rush of murmured syllables is a mirror of her own, she isn’t sure what all this now means – where this leaves them. But as the silence falls and sleep takes hold, she finds her list one phrase shorter.


End file.
